


so, are you going to tell me your name?

by songtofly



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songtofly/pseuds/songtofly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is there even a choice to make, in the end?</p><p>You know how it goes with constants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so, are you going to tell me your name?

**Author's Note:**

> i watched the first 4 episodes of london spy and this happened. then the finale ALSO happened but i choose to ignore that bc it's poopoo.
> 
> you can read this even if you have no idea what the show is about.

The sun rises up above, slow, almost hesitant and small in the middle of a sea of heavy gray clouds. The light is easily covered, and when Oikawa lifts his head and gazes overhead, he can only discern sparse and very distinct rays shining down from the sky. He snorts, lowers his face as he pulls the collar of his sweater up to his chin in a poor attempt at keeping his neck warm.

His face feels numb, the cold biting at his sweat covered skin mercilessly, and Oikawa can’t say his mind feels all that better either. Between his ears a repetitive, mechanical drum beat pounds, the pumping of his blood through his veins almost following its rhythm. He’s left the club for at least twenty minutes now, these effects are only the remnants of a lost night that he can’t quite seem to be able to shake off yet.

He shakily takes his phone out of the pocket of his coat, dials a series of numbers as he chews on his lower lip. He presses the phone to his ear and prays to any deity who is willing to listen that his roommates will pick up the phone. He tries not to think about how much the fact that it’s a gloomy sunday morning makes it all the more unlikely.

Behind him the door opens noisily, and two men stumble forward, one of them supporting the other by the waist. They only make it three steps forward before one of them throws up on the sidewalk. It’s ugly, and Oikawa feels bile rising up to his throat. He walks away and wonders why when all he does is keep looking back.

The city is waking up slowly as well, some shops, small businesses and coffee shops opening around him as he walks with no specific goal in mind, phone against his ear still. He listens to the continuous, seemingly endless beep--beep--beep--beep so much he starts believing his heartbeat is matching up to it.

He stops next to a bridge, and the frustration building up inside his chest up until now almost makes him throw his phone into the water. He decides against it, and only throws it to the ground. He feels satisfaction wash over him at the sight of it shattering. It’s only short lived, though, and soon regret overcomes his senses. He crouches down hastily to pick up the pieces.

Not so far away, a man is running. His pace is fast, but his rhythm steady. Oikawa doesn’t notice him until he stops in front of him, and the first thing he sees, albeit briefly, are his running shoes before his knees touch the ground. Oikawa is forced to look up as his hand reaches for the battery.

His expression is focused, thick eyebrows almost meeting as he picks up parts one by one: the phone case, the back cover, the front that he inspects, looking for cracks on the screen. Oikawa snaps out of it when the man hands them all back, asks with a deep voice if he is okay.

For a moment the sounds around him are drowned out, the chirping of the birds getting far away, the roaring of the cars turning into a low growl in the back of his head. The man’s panting, as well as his own, are mismatched and for some reason those are the only sounds he can fully focus on.

It’s only then that Oikawa really, really looks at him. His bangs are sticking to his forehead, drops of sweat running down from underneath the dark locks to his chin. His gaze is intense, his eyes a warm mix of amber and green. Oikawa feels small for a second, like the man is a wall he can’t look past, but his stubbornness makes him hold his gaze and not blink until the other does.

“Me? I’m doing perfectly fine,” he says right away, forced smile tugging the corners of his lips up, “If you knew me, you’d know I always am.”

He doesn’t pay attention to the small water bottle the runner is handing him until he insistently pushes it between the fingers of Oikawa’s free hand. He looks down at it, at the man’s hands, and a small “thank you” slips out of his lips.

It is all going too fast for his mind, still lost somewhere in the club under flashing lights and aggressive sounds, but he grabs the water bottle nonetheless before feeling warm fingers pushing his soaked bangs away from his forehead.

Surprisingly enough, Oikawa doesn’t recoil from the touch, but his jaw tenses and his eyes snap upwards again, watching the man’s expression. It seems something also snaps inside the taller man, and Oikawa notices the slight tremor of his fingers when he pulls his hand away.

“Sorry,” he says, and before Oikawa can respond he is already standing again, lightly jogging along the direction he came from in the first place.

“What about your water?” Oikawa calls out.

He only turns his face back once, still running, “You can keep it.”

Oikawa stands there, stares at the pieces of his phone in one hand and the water bottle of a stranger in the other.

It’s a gloomy sunday morning and his forehead, where it’s been touched, burns.

The cold’s bites are a little less painful on his face.

-

He goes back to the bridge the next day. And the day after, and then one more. Oikawa usually runs during mornings, too. Just not around that area.

He should have refused the first day, said out loud he doesn’t need someone else’s--a stranger, on top of it all--pity. And even if it were simple, pure hearted kindness, Oikawa still doesn’t like owing people things.

He doesn’t know if it was the alcohol was what stopped him from refusing, or if it was simply the decisiveness surrounding the runner’s tone that made him unable to react. His aura was suffocating in the same way powerful, unshakable people are.

Frankly, he thinks if it were the second one, it’d make it worse. In any case, the result is still the same: he needs to give the water bottle back, and he doesn’t want to stand there in the same spot with heavy hands, waiting with no guarantee.

So he runs as well.

-

He doesn’t cross his path until the fourth day. Oikawa calls him stranger as he speeds up behind him. It’s enough to make him stop. Oikawa catches up.

He’s lightly panting when he stops in front of him, and he doesn’t say hello before shoving the bottle against the man’s chest. It makes the latter stumble backwards, just a bit, but enough for Oikawa to notice. He almost wants to make a face at the man for not grabbing his bottle and stretching the moment out for longer than necessary, it is starting to feel awkward. He doesn’t know why it irritates him.

“Fine,” Oikawa sighs, raising his hands up in the air, defeatist and impatient, before taking a few steps back and putting the bottle down on the ground. It’s wet from the mist. He turns to walk away, hands in his pockets, his bottom lip sticking out in a stubborn pout.

He doesn’t hear footsteps at first, but when he thinks he’s walked long enough to risk a glance backwards he ends up locking eyes with him. This time again, he holds his gaze and slows to a stop. Somehow it feels like the proximity is almost unbearable, despite the considerable distance between them.

The man raises the bottle up slowly in the air, Oikawa takes it as a gesture of thanks. He is ready to run back home when the other starts walking in his direction. Oikawa fully turns around to face him.

“What’s your name?” he asks. Oikawa had almost forgotten how deep his voice was.

“Oikawa,” he answers, “What’s yours?”

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out of it. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, like he is considering something, and finally he says, “My name is Ushiwaka.”

To that Oikawa squints. Something is off. He doesn’t point it out, simply because he can’t pin it down just yet.

“Right,” Oikawa nods, stands on the tips of his toes and looks around before swaying back to support his weight on the sole of his feet again. A small gesture to translate boredom. Ushiwaka’s eyes are glued to his face, though. He can feel them even if he can’t see them.

“I live close by,” Ushiwaka says as he points with his thumb over his shoulder to some area behind them, Oikawa can sense hesitation in the way his voice is dragging down the words but it is spoken like he knows for certain that Oikawa will follow him back all the same.

Oikawa glances at his watch. To be fair, he didn’t have anything planned for the day, and he guesses the man standing in front of him is strange enough that Oikawa is intrigued.

“I didn’t mean--I meant for breakfast,” Ushiwaka adds after Oikawa’s silence.

Well, having company doesn’t sound bad to Oikawa’s ears; and really, in the end, what is there to lose?

Oikawa wants to laugh at himself when they’re walking side by side, a few minutes later.

-

His apartment is big enough for Oikawa to wonder what he does for a living.

It’s clean, neat and tidy. It looks impersonal and weirdly empty despite how well organized and filled it is; it reminds him of the dead minimalist rooms you find in furniture catalogues. The colors used range from black to white with all shades of gray in between.

It looks impersonal, weirdly empty and dead despite how well organized and filled it is.

Oikawa walks around slowly, stops in the middle of the living room with his hands in his pockets. Ushiwaka gestures to the couch with a jerk of his head.

“Make yourself at home,” he adds when he thinks Oikawa doesn’t visibly respond to the invitation, “I need to take a shower.”

Oikawa realizes how badly he needs one too. He feels gross with the collar of his shirt sticking to his skin, and he guesses he could ask Ushiwaka to use the shower as well. But he won’t.

Oikawa hates asking for things, remember?

Making himself feel at home results in him wandering around the place, pushing random half open doors with the tips of his fingers. He spends the longest time in Ushiwaka’s room, and while he is aware that it isn’t polite to look through the man’s things, he just can’t stop himself.

He opens his closet, dim lights inside turning on automatically and illuminating the various suits hanging there. He goes through his drawers, one by one, and to Oikawa’s surprise everything is perfectly neat, not a particle of dust or a random rumpled boxer thrown around in the middle of it all. He lightly scrunches his nose at it. Too perfect.

He is muttering something under his breath about how creepy he finds it all when the door of the bathroom opens. He quickly closes the drawer with a forceful push, and turns around to find Ushiwaka with a towel hanging low on his hips. His hair is wet, not parted the way it always is but simply covering his forehead in one straight bang and that alone makes him look boyish.

Oikawa’s gaze is stuck on Ushiwaka’s eyes again. It’s almost like a silent battle: the one who looks away first loses and Oikawa knows it’s all in his head. Oikawa hates losing in general, but the idea of surrendering to Ushiwaka even in the smallest ways puts a bitter taste in his mouth.  

He shouldn’t have ever accepted the bottle. That was his first loss.

If Ushiwaka did catch Oikawa closing the drawer, he doesn’t let it show. His expression is the same as always. Blank, intense, and inscrutable.

“Oh,” Oikawa whispers after a few minutes of yet another silence between them, realization finally dawning upon him, “I’ll let you change. Sorry about that.”

Ushiwaka simply nods at him and starts walking towards the closet at the same time Oikawa reaches for the door.

-

The coffeeshop Ushiwaka takes them to is nothing too fancy, but Oikawa finds himself hesitating between the multiple breakfast formulas listed in the menu.

He thinks he’d decide faster if Ushiwaka busied himself with something different than blatantly staring at him. The latter knows if he were to look up, he wouldn’t look down again. He chews on the soft flesh inside of his cheek.

After a while, Ushiwaka discreetly leans in, pushes his own menu down the table and whispers, “I can pay.”

It’s magical, really, how Oikawa’s right fist almost acquires a mind of its own and decides that punching the man sounds like a good idea.

Instead he breathes through his nose, and the upward curve of his lips is downright vicious.

“I can pay as well,” he says, tone sweet.

There’s a pause, and Ushiwaka seems to think about the words to use.

“You aren’t pleased,” he finally decides.

“Sorry?”

“You’re smiling, but it isn’t real. Sorry if I have offended you,” Ushiwaka lowers his eyes to his menu, “It wasn’t my intent.”

Oikawa’s smile slowly drops. He rests his chin into the palm of one of his hands and studies Ushiwaka’s face before returning to his menu as well.

He’s almost sure of the formula he chose when Ushiwaka speaks again.

“Did you look through my clothes?” he asks. The question is asked like one would ask for the most mundane things: a weightless question expecting a weightless answer, devoid of consequences.

Oikawa decides to play it safe, anyway.

“Why do you think so?”

“You are very easy to read.”  

The words make Oikawa cringe, but the way they’re spoken makes him sit still and listen. Ushiwaka’s choice of words is awkward at best, sometimes even rude, but they are coated with a sort of candidness and childlike innocence.

“Really?” he is amused, “I’ve been told that I'm fake, and that it's hard to guess my true intentions.”

“I don’t believe that,” Ushiwaka says, confident and sure, “I know what fake is. I deal with it every day. For work, I mean.”

Something about the shift in the atmosphere makes Oikawa unable to pry into this unknown facet of Ushiwaka. It feels like a warning, bright and red, standing big and obvious in front of him. It screams ‘Danger’, and he knows better than to not trust his gut feeling.

He swiftly changes the topic.

“I think I’ve made my choice,” he says, and his heartbeat gets steadier once the territory is known and safe again.

-

“So he hasn’t called yet?” his best friend asks as they walk down the street together.

Oikawa looks around them as Iwaizumi stops to light a cigarette. The other people on the street walk faster than them, sometimes bumping into Oikawa’s shoulder. Most of them look worn out. Oikawa is sure that the large majority of them are only present physically, minds dealing with the usual stress inducing situations the average adult faces in their life: money, bills, work, maybe children. Maybe love, or lack thereof. 

The sky is as gray as the expressions of the people underneath.

At the first light huff Iwaizumi lets out, Oikawa shakes his head twice.

“Do you think he will?”

“Yeah,” Oikawa says, “I’m pretty sure he will.”

“What makes you think so?” he takes another drag as they continue walking, side by side, shoulders almost touching, “It’s been a week already.”

“I don’t really know,” Oikawa punctuates his answer with a shrug, “I just feel it.”

“The fact he didn’t even write your number down makes me believe he really wasn’t planning on calling you anyway.”

“But you know, Iwa-chan, that’s because he said he didn’t need to,” his lips curl up into a smile, “I know he has it carved into his memory.”

“I doubt it.”

“That’s just because you’ve never met him,” he stops for a second, considers his words, “I don’t think I have ever met someone as brutally honest as him. I know he meant what he said.”

“I imagine that makes dealing with him a lot easier.”

They turn around the corner, spotting the usual restaurant where they share their meals during workdays.

“He’s straightforward but not in an aggressive way, It’s more unguarded than anything. Almost like he’s not aware of what’s respectful and what’s not,” he says, “That kind of pisses me off, I have to admit,” Oikawa breathes out this time, more like a thought to himself, “I guess it’s both a blessing and a curse.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t reply.

-

The knocking on the door gets louder and louder, so much so that Oikawa realizes it is not part of his dreams. The last knock almost makes him jump out of bed. He is about to call Matsukawa’s or Hanamaki’s names in frustration when he realizes he’s got the apartment to himself for a few days.

He glances at the time. 6am. He drags himself out of bed and doesn’t bother putting a shirt on, legs and eyes heavy with sleep. He’s already cursed Iwaizumi enough to guarantee him misfortunes for a lifetime by the time he reaches the door.

When he opens it, his reflex is to rub his eyes. It’s not Iwaizumi.

Ushiwaka is standing there.

“Good morning,” Ushiwaka says.

-

Oikawa looks out the window, watches the trees melt into one another as the car speeds up.

The radio is turned off, and Ushiwaka is not a talkative person in general. He steals more glances than he uses words.

Oikawa sighs. “So, what are you like?”

“What do you mean?”

“As a person,” he makes random gestures in the air with his hands, “Just in general, tell me about yourself.”

“How?”

The fact that Ushiwaka’s tone is one of genuine confusion leaves Oikawa quiet for a little longer than what is comfortable.

He ends up laughing, but the sound bears no derision.

“Isn’t that what people do when they meet?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

So Oikawa talks and observes. He discovers that Ushiwaka’s tongue is not made of steel, that simple questions can unravel it and push the words past his lips. He learns that he is not reluctant, but that he won’t go out of his way to reveal information.

Ushiwaka stops the car before a vast green field starts. Oikawa spots various hills, and beyond lies the sea. It’s gray as well, the same color as the sky, but the weather is a little warmer today and the clouds are only scattered here and there instead of suffocating the sun. It peeks through the spaces in between, casts a warm embrace to the life underneath.

Oikawa likes the feeling of it on his back. Goosebumps rise on his skin. He’d purr if he were a cat.

He follows Ushiwaka to the car trunk, and when he opens it to get his backpack Oikawa spots a ball. It’s familiar in its shape and form.

“Is that a volleyball?”

“Yes,” Ushiwaka grabs it and hands it to him, “Do you play?”

“I do,” he skates his fingers across the surface. He can tell it hasn’t been used often. “Do you?”

“I used to,” Ushiwaka replies but the sound is drowned out as he slams the car trunk shut, “I don’t anymore.”

“What position did you play?”

Ushiwaka starts walking ahead, Oikawa doesn’t follow right afterwards as he inspects the ball, turning it around in his hands with a nostalgic little smile. He remembers when he first got one, remembers showing up at Iwaizumi’s door with a grin so big his jaw hurt, failing at hiding the ball behind his little back to make the surprise last a bit longer.

He remembers the laughs, the accidents, the bruised noses, the tears. The wins, the losses. Middle school, and then high school. There’s regret welling up between his ribs, a little voice whispering maybe you should have continued afterwards, maybe you should have believed in yourself more.

Sometimes, he wishes he had a rival back then to pull him forward. Someone to say “hey, stay the course” after a loss. Maybe someone to help him realize just how much more he could have achieved. Oikawa knows he was a lot more spiteful as a teenager, he probably would have thought the gesture to be condescending.

“I was a wing spiker,” he says, “I would have been a pro volleyball player, had the circumstances been different.”

“That’s a lot of confidence. I have a feeling you and I wouldn’t have gotten along at all if we had met on a court.”

Ushiwaka throws him a glance as if his remark is a silly one. “Is it so bad to be confident about one’s abilities and accomplishments? I did not lie.”

## (hon·est

 (ŏn′ĭst)

adj.

1\. Marked by or displaying integrity; upright.

2\. Not deceptive or fraudulent; genuine.

3\. Equitable; fair.

4.

a. Characterized by truth; not false.

b. Sincere; frank.

5.

a. Of good repute; respectable.

b. Without affectation; plain.

6\. Virtuous; chaste.)

 

Oikawa doesn’t reply to that.

“Maybe we would have gotten along, maybe we wouldn’t have. It is only theoretical as we did not meet under such circumstances,” he says, “What position did you play?”

“Setter,” he easily says, “I was never a prodigy, but I set the tosses my spikers wanted.”

“Isn’t that what makes a setter excellent?” Ushiwaka asks, but Oikawa knows he doesn’t expect an answer, “Did you enjoy playing?”

“Very much,” he tosses the ball to the side for Ushiwaka to catch, “I grew up with it, but I don’t play as much anymore. When did you start playing?”

Oikawa lightly runs ahead of Ushiwaka, then turns to face him as he walks backwards. He stretches his hands out: an invitation.

“My father taught me when I was a child,” Ushiwaka tosses the ball to him, “It is one of my only memories of him.”

Oikawa is not sure of the implications of Ushiwaka’s choice of words, and he isn’t sure he has the right to ask either, so he settles for “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

To Oikawa’s ears, this doesn’t exactly sound fine. But here is the thing: Oikawa is sure Ushiwaka isn’t even aware of it.

Oikawa knows pain; he knows what it is like to have to shed skin before it is even dead, he knows what it is like to scratch at flesh like its purpose becomes hindrance, he knows what it is like to wish for potential to bleed out from cut veins instead of disgusting, common, simple, boring blood.

To Oikawa’s eyes, what Ushiwaka looks like is someone who’s had to shed too many layers of skin too early, too soon, too fast.

He must have lost a piece of himself in the process.

-

## friv·o·lous

 (frĭv′ə-ləs)

adj.

1\. Unworthy of serious attention; trivial.

2\. Inappropriately silly.

-

## se·ri·ous

 (sîr′ē-əs)

adj.

1\. Careful in thought, full of concern, or restrained and dignified in manner; somber or grave.

2.

a. Requiring or carried out with careful thought or concern.

b. Intended for sophisticated people

3.

a. Concerned with important rather than trivial matters.

b. Not joking or trifling.

-

Oikawa stares at his toes as he wiggles them underneath the water. It makes them look distorted and he finds it funny.

Ushiwaka is sitting on the sand, shoes still on. His legs are bent in front of him, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging in the space between.

Oikawa looks up and the genuine, childlike smile that had been tugging at his lips dies the moment their eyes meet. Oikawa is so quick to strap that thin layer of skin on himself whenever he lays himself bare: vulnerability in any sense or form is not something he’s ever wanted.

He feels slightly embarrassed about it, but Oikawa is good at distracting people and leading conversations.

“You look so old for your age, sitting down like an old man and keeping quiet,” he says, “Do you ever have fun?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

(And he is, he really is. For now, he is.)

Oikawa steps towards him, whines about the numbness of his feet, and Ushiwaka only silently follows him with his eyes. He decides to sit down next to him.

“Do you really never mess around?” Oikawa unfolds the ends of his pants, rolling them down his wet ankles. His voice is quiet.

“What do you mean?” Ushiwaka asks.

“Just...,” Oikawa starts and then frowns, “Do things for the hell of it? Because they’re fun and that’s all. No other reason.”

“What do you get out of that?” he asks again, “It sounds pointless.”

Oikawa stops to look at him, eyes curious and focused. Oikawa almost feels the light bulb above his head light up.

He swiftly wraps his hand around Ushiwaka’s bicep and gets up, tugs him along. When they near the sea Ushiwaka pulls back, says to wait, that his shoes will get wet and that his pants will too.

Oikawa doesn’t hear him over his own laughter.

(Ushiwaka loves the feeling of Oikawa’s hand over his clothes too much to break the contact.)

-

Objectively speaking, it was a bad idea. Oikawa had known that before even getting up.

Their pants are wet up to their knees, some patches on their shirts too. Both hiss when they move as the fabric, cold, sticks to their skin, but both are smiling. Ushiwaka’s smile is softer than Oikawa would have imagined. Oikawa stares for a little longer than he had planned to.

He just didn’t think a curve this gentle could belong in a set of stern, hard features.

They walk on wet sand, the sun warming their backs. Oikawa can see their coats thrown on the sand, a little far up from their current spot. From where he’s standing, it looks like a small hill. He can hear Ushiwaka walking behind him, shy waves kissing their feet and retreating back into the sea only to come back again and tease some more.

Oikawa stops and looks around, waits for Ushiwaka to notice.

“Hey,” he starts, all soft, when he’s standing in front of him. He’s close, Oikawa can make up faint and small scars. One above his right eyebrow, a dent in his skin. “Are you going to tell me your real name, now?”

Asking it this way is his safest card: if Ushiwaka is indeed lying about his name, then the way Oikawa worded the question would make him believe he is aware of the lie instead of just suspecting it. Getting an answer will be easier like this.

Ushiwaka doesn’t blink at the question. He doesn’t even look surprised, and that kind of frustrates Oikawa, just a bit, because he’d rather know what’s going on in the man’s head. He notices that Ushiwaka’s focus is on his lips, then his eyes.

“How did you guess?” he asks. There’s no bite in his words, his voice as deep and steady and warm as Oikawa has always known it to be.

Oikawa shrugs. He reads people like he reads open books, and in a lot of cases people are easier than books. He doesn’t have to read between the lines, he only has to watch them unravel before him; they betray themselves quite efficiently and all on their own. So far, he already knows this: this man does not know how to lie.

“My name is Ushijima,” he says simply, “Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

Oikawa nods, once. Twice.

He doesn’t understand why Ushijima would lie about such a simple thing, and so badly at that. It’s not even like Oikawa was planning on stalking him on social media, if that’s what he was worried about. Oikawa grimaces at the thought. He guesses he could let this one slide, but...

“Does this have anything to do with the fact that you knew about my address without me giving it to you?” Oikawa watches Ushijima’s shoulders tense and he is aware that his own voice is as sharp as the blade of a knife. Oikawa imagines that if it were indeed a blade, it would be against Ushijima’s throat right as they speak.

Ushijima parts his lips. Oikawa can tell they’re dry because of how the skin stubbornly sticks at the sides.

There’s a heavy silence between them, a moment where they hold each other’s gaze, risk a glance down the other’s face. Fast, cautious.

Oikawa’s frowning. He hopes Ushijima understands that he doesn’t like being mistaken for a fool. He hopes, for Ushijima’s sake, that he knows Oikawa has fangs he’s not afraid to bare.

When he starts feeling Ushijima’s warm breath hitting his collarbones, realizes that he can make out the gold speckles in his eyes, the length and thickness of his lashes, Oikawa inhales sharply and turns around. He walks away, fists tight at his sides.

His heart is beating fast and that is the most ridiculous thing that has happened to him today; more than running in the water with his hand gripping Ushijima’s arm tightly, more than getting the lower half of his pants wet. More than laughing at Ushijima’s inability to loosen up.

-

“There are things I can’t say,” Ushijima whispers against Oikawa’s hair two days later.

It’s dark outside, and it is as well in Oikawa’s room. Oikawa can distinguish the hard edges of Ushijima’s face: the sharp line of his jaw, the straight line of his nose. Part of Ushijima’s face is honey-bright under the light of the street lamp standing outside the window of Oikawa’s bedroom.

“I figured,” Oikawa shifts, leaning his weight on his right foot. Ushijima’s hands are cold, hardened skin brushing against his own. “I don’t want to know if you don’t want to say. But know that I’m smarter than I look.”

“You are, I have never doubted that,” Ushijima’s response is immediate, “I--”

“You don’t even know me that well,” Oikawa’s eyes move from Ushijima’s veins, traveling along his arm, to his face. His gaze is penetrating.

“I know that you are smart, eloquent, perceptive,” Ushijima doesn’t look away as he speaks.“That you are good with people and that you bring out the best in them when they are around you.”

Oikawa snorts. He can’t help but roll his eyes. “How would you even know that.” Oikawa doesn’t ask.

(Ushijima wants to reply anyway, because he knows, God, _he knows_. This is the only certainty he has, and he is clinging to it like a child does to his mother’s breast.)

“I know,” Ushijima starts, “because I feel...” he trails off, furrows his brows. He looks almost pained, trying to search for the right word. Oikawa gives him a few more minutes, watches him chew on the inside of his lower lip as if trying to push the word out.

He never gets to.

(He thinks Oikawa might have guessed, might have taken the word himself from his tongue. Oikawa is good at that, he’s good at knowing. Ushijima, not so much; he only knows what he’s been taught.)

“Don’t lie to me again,” he says, it’s low and the warning is clear, “I don’t want to know everything, but don’t lie to my face like that again.”

“I’m sorry,” Ushijima’s eyes aren’t on Oikawa’s face anymore, but he notices anyway when the latter opens his mouth as it makes him blurt out another firm “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not even good at it.”

Oikawa sees the man’s fist clenching, unclenching, the muscles in his arms twitching with each movement. The orange hue of the street lights makes the motion stand out even more, ridges obvious as he tenses his arms.

“God, you suck at it,” Oikawa whispers again as his fingers curl around Ushijima’s wrist, and instantly his fingers are loose, his flesh soft. There’s only the hardness of Ushijima’s bone under Oikawa’s warm palm.

(Alive. Alive is the word.)

-

They feel like mismatched pieces for a while. They are both too proud for their own good. Sometimes, Oikawa thinks he is one step ahead, and sometimes Ushijima’s back is in front of him and he has to quicken his pace and catch up. It's a constant race.

They are forces of nature, unleashed, each of them acting like an amplificator of what already is at their core.

What Oikawa knows is this: it’s the sort of relationship where, if you succeed to reach a certain ground, you bring out the absolute best in each other. But that comes with a price to pay.

Most people aren’t fond of extremes. People like balance; a little bit of this, a little bit of that, a healthy middle, the safety of a solid, wide, ground instead of the thrill of a thin rope and the pull of gravity underneath.

Oikawa is extreme and that may as well be the reason why people are so attracted to him but can’t handle being around him too long.

(They like the idea of him the way they like the idea of stars: people have written poems about stars, have longed to reach for them, but nobody could ever be able to touch one.)

He remembers being described as such, mostly behind his back, but the weary whispers always reach his ears. He doesn’t really mind.

Most people don’t want to fall. Oikawa doesn’t either, but he’s not afraid of it. He’s fallen to his knees enough times to know that nothing can grind him into the dirt. He’s only afraid of not being able to stand up again.

This is what feels safe for them: pulling and pushing each other, exploding the way stars die and being born again from dusty clouds scattered around them. This is what stability feels like for them: running ahead, running, running, running and knowing the other can--and will--follow.

(Run to where? Who even cares. What do they want? Everything, but mostly each other--and maybe that is everything.)

Oikawa remembers Iwaizumi calling him troublesome, and Oikawa remembers asking why. Iwaizumi said it is because Oikawa will never be satisfied, no matter what, that he’ll always want more, chase something at the horizon.

Well, Oikawa supposes he’s right. That’s why he can’t settle for less than this.

After all, a constant is not absolute until it can shift at the pace you do and serve as a guiding light through new, uncharted areas.

-

Ushijima called him divine once. Oikawa remembers laughing and throwing his head backwards. He remembers shutting up, remembers the pull of Ushijima’s hands, remembers the cup of Ushijima’s lips fitting between his.

Oikawa has never felt more divine than on the throne of Ushijima’s hips, his bones digging into his flesh.

-

Ushijima sometimes disappears for days, and comes back with a small bandage. A plain bandaid on the bridge of his nose, or underneath one of his eyes. A bruise. They’re so unlike the bruises Oikawa leaves on him.

Ushijima wears them differently: he hides these while he doesn’t bother masking the ones from Oikawa.

## (se·cret

 (sē′krĭt)

adj.

1.

a. Kept hidden from knowledge or view; concealed.

b. Not expressed; inward.)

That’s the closest to the truth Ushijima gives him, and he gives it to him with a plea in his eyes. Had Ushijima been on his knees when he was begging, fingers clasped tight around the fabric of Oikawa’s pants, it would have made no difference.

Please, don’t ask more. Please, stay away from this. Please, please, please.

Oikawa knows when to be merciful, and the times Ushijima begs, Oikawa usually indulges. He also knows when to be careful, and he is no murderer but his instinct knows what death smells like, and that is the kind of smell that hangs around Ushijima each time he comes back from “work trips”.

He has no idea that he is being coated in blood when Ushijima’s hands roam over his body. He only begins to understand when Ushijima seeks out Oikawa’s touch like it is salvation.

(Isn’t Oikawa divine, after all?)

-

“Let’s go away for the weekend,” Oikawa whispers against the slope of Ushijima’s shoulder.

One of Ushijima’s legs shifts, squeezes in between Oikawa’s. He hums, curls his fingers around the spaces between Oikawa’s own. It’s soft, lazy, warm in ways that make Oikawa’s eyelids droop when he knows he’s had enough sleep.

“Okay,” Ushijima easily replies, “But I have to buy a new battery before. For my laptop.”

Oikawa nods, doesn’t wonder why the blunt edges of Ushijima’s nails are digging into his palm. He only squeezes back.

-

He’s not there, the next day.

And the day afterwards.

And the one that follows.

And the ones that follow.

Iwaizumi tells him it’s a breakup, but Oikawa doesn’t believe that.

Iwaizumi says he’s in denial, Oikawa says he knows better.

Oikawa’s had his fair share of breakups with Ushijima throughout the time they’ve been together, and what he knows is this: they end up doing a lot of crawling. Crawling between sheets with tear stained cheeks, cold hands and toes. Crawling under starved skin, whispering apologies like a litany of prayers.

None of them are religious, but during those moments they may as well be.

Iwaizumi doesn’t know that.

-

There is a package waiting for him at his door two weeks later. It’s lighter than it looks, so when he picks it up he uses too much force and loses balance for a split second. Something inside rolls, covered in paper; he can hear it. The writing on the package is not familiar.

Oikawa looks around before shoving it under one of his armpits to pull out his keys with his other hand.

He closes the door as fast as he opens it, and gets to his knees with the package in front of him. His hands are shaking with anticipation and hope, and it makes his fingers heavy and inefficient. He doesn’t realize he’s sweating until he tries to push his bangs out of his eyes and feels the slick warmth of his forehead. He needs a knife.

He stumbles to the kitchen, fast and awkward. Grabs a knife and doesn’t think about the possibility of getting cut in the middle of all his hastiness, because the package is the closest thing to a promise he’s had in days, so he clings to it and cuts it open.

Inside lies something round wrapped up in brown paper with tape to hold it all in place. Oikawa stares for the longest time before he dares laying a hand on it. He doesn’t worry about what’s inside as much as he worries about the meaning of it all.

(After all, who would send a ball with no other message? Who would expect him to understand? Who would trust him to know?)

He tears it apart, picks the ball--a volleyball--up and lets him experience the feel of it. It is cold and the surface is scraped in various places. He remembers it. He understands. He knows. He holds onto it like it will wash away the fear, like it can replace broad and warm palms on the small of his back.

It’s the only thing he has.

He doesn’t notice the keys until he shifts on his knees and the light reflects against the metal and hits his eyes. But when he sees them, he understands.

He remembers the laptop battery.

-

He calls his name as soon as he opens the door of Ushijima’s apartment. Everything is as pristine and neatly kept as the first time he came here. The fact that it is somehow colder sends shivers down his spine. Ushijima doesn’t respond.

(Oikawa remembers how responsive Ushijima was to him. So, _so_ responsive.)

He looks around except this time there’s no caution in his steps, the fear of being caught never once crossing his mind. He wastes no time as he opens drawers one after the other, pushing doors open.

He doesn’t realize he’s calling for Ushijima’s name still.

-

He stops at the far end of the hallway when he senses a light, wet, pressure in his hair. It’s gone as soon as he feels it, so naturally he looks up.

There’s a trapdoor above his head.

He takes a step back, and then another. He waits for the next drop, and it comes, crashes on the carpet and spreads. He runs a hand through his hair, tries to get rid of the slight wetness there. He doesn’t know what it is.

He looks for a ladder anyway, climbs, and pushes. He calls his name again. The only response he gets is his own echo.

It’s dark and Oikawa can’t see no matter how long he waits for his eyes to adjust, so he takes his phone out of his pocket and uses its flashlight.

From where he is standing, he can see a bed. He climbs the last steps and curves his shoulders forward to shrink himself, rests a hand on the wooden ceiling as he walks, trying not to hit the ceiling with his own head.

There’s a bed, covered in red sheets. Oikawa doesn’t understand. He’s never been here, never heard Ushijima mention it. He lowers himself on the ground, looks under the bed.

He can make out the shape of something with the help of his flashlight, so he presses his head against the floor and stretches his arm out, tries to feel all around the spot where he’s seen the object. He can’t use the flashlight anymore in this position. His shoulder starts hurting as he pushes against the bed for more space.

His fingers land on the material. It’s cold, and if he moves his hand to the side--just slightly--he can feel a USB port.

There’s a knot in his throat as realization dawns upon him and he curses the heavens for the sweat in his palm making it harder for him to grab the laptop. But he gets it. His hands are shaky, his breathing is uneven, but he gets it. He turns it around on the bed, pushes the battery out of the laptop and inspects it. On the backside he feels something circular: a small cylinder 5cm long maybe, with a code of 8 numbers. He takes it out of the battery before getting the battery back to the laptop.

He looks around him, thinks that for a second the loud beating of his heart between his ears is only the thunder outside. But he is alone, and he has no one to lie to. _I’m fine, if you knew me you’d know I always am_. He remembers Ushijima telling him _you’re true to yourself, you’re true to yourself, you’re true to yourself_. He has no one to lie to, he is alone and terrified.

He looks around him, and this time after closing his eyes and breathing out he notices a closet that he opens. Inside there are dark suits, all leather and lace. Underneath there are ropes, ties, toys he’s never seen Ushijima use on himself, and they surely have never been used on Oikawa. He tries to swallow down the sand in his throat.

He closes the doors slowly, turns around just as slow and takes careful steps, hand tight around the battery. He walks around the attic, listens to the creaking of the wooden floor to distract him from the thunder of his own blood.

Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

He looks down when the sound of his step is muted down, when it feels moist under his shoe. It’s red and not his. He hears a sharp scream, and it takes him a little longer to realize that it is his voice.

-

The police shows him a picture of Ushijima.

(They don’t need to, his face is tattooed behind his eyelids.)

They ask him questions but aren’t satisfied with the answers. He tells them Ushijima has been his partner for over a year, that he is a prodigy--having been sent to college at only fifteen years old--and that his parents divorced when he was young but that it didn’t really matter anymore because they already died.

They tell him 3 different kinds of things:

  1. things he knows.

  2. things he’d rather not know.

  3. and things he doesn’t believe.




They say those are statements, facts, and that Oikawa doesn’t know anything.

You can’t trade knowledge for ignorance no matter how much you try and maybe that is why ignorance is considered bliss.

Ushijima was a spy, they tell him. That much, he can believe. They also tell him his parents are alive, and Oikawa supposes that it is believable as well.

(People can die in so many ways. Sometimes the only way to move on is to decide that some people are no more. For the mind, sometimes that much is enough. To pretend enough times until you believe is enough.)

Then they tell him the bed, the suits, the leather, the lace, the ropes--all of it--belong to him, they say he had sadistic and masochistic tendencies, and Oikawa shakes his head.

They say Oikawa must’ve certainly laid on that bed, being his partner for more than a year and all, but Oikawa shakes his head. He shakes his head again when they say that, well, then, Ushijima must’ve slept with other people.

Oikawa knows when Ushijima lies because it is the most unnatural thing Oikawa has ever come across in his life.

Ushijima is not a man who lies. You can’t turn a human into a weapon and expect the kind of precise perfection a machine with an only purpose can possess. Surely, when Ushijima came into this world, he did it the way other baby boys did: the first inhale swelled his lungs and that alone made him cry.

Here are the facts: Ushijima only knows what he’s been taught, but nobody can teach Ushijima who he is except himself. And what Oikawa knows is this: he is not a liar.

Oikawa would know. After all, he is a liar in more ways than one.

-

The police use the past tense when they refer to him, and that--of all things Oikawa’s heard--is the thing he refuses the most violently.

A fact: Ushijima is a constant in Oikawa’s life, and Oikawa’s constant is absolute. It can shift at the pace he does and serve as a guiding light thr--

-

(It’s dark again.)

-

Oikawa is not afraid of falling. He is not afraid of the skin of his knees tearing under the impact, of the broken bones that he will have to patch up. But there is no blood on his skin, there is only the drag of his heart.

It aches in his chest so bad.

-

The police asks him if he has taken anything with him from the attic.

Oikawa is a liar in more ways than one, so when he says “no”, they believe him.

The only one who doesn’t believe him is Iwaizumi, but it’s fine because Oikawa trusts him with his life.

Iwaizumi says to let go and move on. He says “do you realize how young you are and how many people you will meet?” and he says “it will only hurt for a while.” and he says “it is because you are hurt that you can’t believe it. It’s the shock.” and he says “what you are doing is dangerous, it could get you in serious trouble. You have to stop.”

Honestly, really, when has Oikawa Tooru been good at stopping and letting go?

-

He turns off the lights of his apartment and when it’s bathing in warm orange thanks to the street light, he remembers.

( _“Don’t lie to my face like that again.” “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”_ )

He crawls under the small table in his bedroom with the cylinder in one hand and his plugged bedside lamp in the other. He presses the cylinder to his heart.

-

He doesn’t know what Ushijima was thinking, and the eight numbers make no sense to him.

-

They often went back to the sea, after their first trip there.

Oikawa remembers when once they went at night.

They lit a small fire up to keep them warm. They didn’t need to, now that Oikawa thinks about it, they didn’t need to because they sat close enough to each other that their thighs touched. Oikawa remembers Ushijima curling a finger inside the collar of his shirt and breathing in like the air around them was not enough.

They were warm enough.

Oikawa stared at the fire for the longest time, watching it dance and eat at the twigs they had collected before. He wrapped his arms around himself before he asked.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

Ushijima’s reply came almost immediately, a sharp “no” that made Oikawa look at him.

“I don’t believe in them. I don’t even think it is a nice idea.”

Oikawa frowned. “Why not?”

“That would mean that almost everyone in the world is with the wrong person. There are 7 billion people in the world. If only one of them is supposed to be with you, then what are the chances of you being in the same city?” It was not a question. “What are the chances of you being in the same country? What are the chances of you crossing the same path, at the same time?”

Those were not questions, those were probabilities. Solid, hard numbers.

Oikawa focused on the flickering light again, tension between his brows still, nose scrunched up. A light pout, his bottom lip slightly pushed out.

Ushijima grabbed another twig, toyed with it before throwing it to the fire. “If it’s to say that we are good together, then why not just say that?”

“Do you think there might be someone better out there for you?”

“There might be,” Ushijima said, “For you as well. But we don’t know them, so it doesn’t matter.”

Oikawa looked at him again, watched as the fire illuminated his sharp features and casted shadows on the hollows of his cheeks. Oikawa thought--and really, it was an amusing thought to him at the time, still is--that Ushijima’s jawline probably could cut him open, that he wanted it to.

Oikawa crossed his fingers behind his head and leaned backwards, staring up at the starry sky instead.

“You’re no fun, Ushiwaka-chan,” he had sighed then, bored, “We’re under a beautiful sky, full of bright stars, and we made a fire. Just the two of us. You could’ve just said you believed in soulmates.”

Ushijima pressed his lips in a thin line at the nickname--Oikawa made sure Ushijima knew by then that it was his way of expressing annoyance at him--but he shifted to lie down next to him anyway, turned his face to look at his profile.

(He studied the pretty curve of his nose, the delicate slope of it, the slight push of his pouty lips, the round tip of his chin. He wondered if Oikawa wanted to kiss him as well, at that time, after their conversation. He wondered if Oikawa’s lips were burning with want as well.)

“Is that something your soulmate would have done?”

-

Those are numbers. Solid, hard numbers.

Eight. He needs eight.

-

The police calls him again, and they ask the same question.

The firmness of Oikawa’s “no” is unwavering, but he knows that it does not settle well with them. He sees it in the slight strain around their eyes. They’re not squinting at him, but they might as well.

He knows they can't prove anything. He cleaned up behind him before calling the police, that day.

Now Oikawa needs to think of a spot where to hide the cylinder before they decide to search his place.

-

The streets were busy. Oikawa was walking ahead of Ushijima. They had just left a nice restaurant in the Akasaka district.

Oikawa doesn’t remember who suggested they’d go out that night, he only remembers that they both needed to.

It was supposed to be a distracting experience.

The streets were busy, and Oikawa was walking ahead of Ushijima. He was trying so hard not to look back.

“I’ve had enough experiences with people to know what I want and what I don’t want,” Oikawa said, his hands balled into fists, “That’s why I need you to do the same.”

He really tried not to look back, but he ended up doing so anyway. Ushijima’s eyes were shiny under the lights.

“I don’t want you to stay with me just because I’m the first,” Oikawa gulped, looked at his right, inhaled sharply. His shoulders were tense.

“You should go out with other people. You really shou--”

“I don’t want to,” Ushijima cut him off. There was an ugly twist to his lips, his mouth slightly trembling. He looked like he was cold.

(It’s not the cold, but what difference is there between cold seeping into your bones and fear seeping into your very core?)

Oikawa wished it was easy as that, because then he could have just given him his coat.

“That’s not what--” he tried again, tried to swallow down the heart threatening to spill out of his throat.

“I don’t need to,” Ushijima said a little louder, his voice cracking at the end. Eyes pleading and all that.

A lot of the times, Oikawa had wondered what Ushijima would look like when utterly powerless, broken down to the bone. He did not wish to know anymore.

-

Eight numbers.

-

Desperation was dripping from Ushijima’s fingers.

Oikawa felt it all over his skin, felt it whenever Ushijima would press him flat between his body and a hard surface. He briefly thought about how much better it would be without their clothes getting in the way.

( _“There might be someone better out there for me. For you as well.”_ )

Ushijima had Oikawa’s wrists pinned above his head before sliding his own hands up to grab them instead, intertwining their fingers and squeezing.

( _“I don’t want to. I don’t need to.”_ )

Against Oikawa’s neck, as their hips met flush, he whispered “you’re my one and only” with such conviction it made Oikawa’s nails sink into the soft flesh between each of Ushijima’s fingers, his back arching off the bed in a perfect crescent of pure want and pleasure, front pressing against blood-hot thick muscle.

For some reason, then and there, Oikawa thought about their first time.

Here is how it started: Ushijima hovering over him, and Oikawa’s neck straining just so he could kiss him.

Something inside Ushijima had shifted when Oikawa’s teeth latched on his lower lip to pull him down, his kisses becoming bruising and not just because of inexperience. Ushijima had said he’d never shared anyone’s bed, and the fact that he disclosed said information when asked discouraged people from trying anything with him anyway. Ushijima had asked “who would want to stay after that?”

Oikawa had replied “I do.”

He did not look like it, and it was not something anyone expected from someone like Oikawa, but he devoted himself to things and people in the strangest, most detached ways. Ushijima was aware, Oikawa knows he was.

Ushijima was all heavy muscles and assertive aura, but Oikawa was pulling these soft, little pained noises out of the back of Ushijima’s throat. It made Oikawa’s head spin. He was open and bare, belly taught in anticipation, so much so that Oikawa had to lay a hand on it and press down, whisper “calm down, you need to relax.”

Oikawa guided Ushijima’s hands from where they were grasping at the sheets but he resisted, so Oikawa looked at him with a question in his eyes. Ushijima whispered that his hands were sweaty, and Oikawa fit his smiling mouth against the bump of Ushijima’s adam’s apple.

Oikawa didn’t mind the sweat. He knew that by the end of it, they’d be swapping more than just sweat.

(It’s burnt into Oikawa’s memory, the way Ushijima’s blunt nails dug into his biceps, clawing at the skin like he needed something to bind him to the real world.)

He was gasping for air when Oikawa first rolled his hips, and Oikawa had cradled his head at the base of his skull, had pressed Ushijima’s forehead to his collarbones. He kissed the crown of his head while his thumb was caressing the dip above Ushijima’s hipbone.

“Please,” Ushijima choked out. God, he was so vocal, “ _Please_ , I--”

(Oikawa doesn’t remember needing air. He could have easily traded that for more time.)

-

Eight numbers.

Seven billion people, and the numbers don’t add up.

(Then what are the chances of you being in the same city? 0.

What are the chances of you being in the same country? 0.

What are the chances of you crossing the same path, at the same time? 0, 0.)

The numbers don’t add up.

(I don’t want to. 0. I don’t need to. 0.)

The numbers don’t add up. 0.

(You’re my one and only. 1.)

They do.

-

|00000001|

The cylinder clicks open in Oikawa’s hands. He pulls the slightly pushed-out end to reveal the head of a USB flash drive.

He runs to his laptop with it in his hand, and struggles to plug it with how hard his hands are shaking. He has to remind himself to breathe.

The file opens before him. Numbers, and a message.

 

“Congratulations. You found it. 

You have two options, and both require that you trust me:

  1. You die as Oikawa Tooru tonight. You abandon the life you have built up until now: you leave all the people you know and your belongings behind. When you will wake up, you will be safe. If you say yes, you will hear about the police finding your body tomorrow night. I have a sample of your DNA, so that shouldn’t be a problem. They know you and I were together.  And with the information they currently have, they can only guess that your murder is linked to your ties with me. There will be new identity papers ready for you, and a one-way plane ticket.

  2. You forget everything about the past few months. You give up on finding out what happened at the attic, and you believe what the police has told you: Ushijima Wakatoshi is dead.




 

The content of this flash drive will self destruct the moment you plug it out but you could also print it and hand it over to the police. In any case you will have to destroy the flash drive itself, for your own safety.

Read what follows carefully.”

 

There is a research in there, Oikawa discovers. Ushijima had worked on it for the most part of his life: a pattern to study people’s mannerisms, their breathing, their pupil dilation, body language and translate all of it into numbers and form a pattern. The patterns would be different when someone would be saying the truth, or telling a lie. Of course, this would require enough data on people to compare all series of words and actions, but the most eminent people in the world are also the most mediatised.

Ushijima doesn’t need their consent in other to know. He just needs them to talk, and they do more than enough of that.

Anyone getting their hands on it would automatically insure disaster. The Public Security Intelligence Agency would be the first candidate, as they already had started forming suspicions when it came to what Ushijima, their own agent, was doing in the dark. He hid it all well.

(He wasn’t planning on running away: after all, this was the only way he knew how to live his life, and his research served as a coping mechanism in a world built on lies.

And then Oikawa Tooru happened.

What it means to love, to be loved, to fight, to forgive, to cry, to laugh, to have fun, to be the best he could be--all of that came with Oikawa Tooru.

He was fine, back then, sitting on the sand and watching Oikawa smile at his toes. He was fine for the first time in years. He really was.)

The last lines in the file make Oikawa’s insides clench painfully.

 

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I wanted you and that made me reckless. I’m sorry I was self centered and selfish. 

I’m sorry I had to lie, at first. It worried me every day. I had no other choice.

I know you could always see right through me, and the closest I have ever been to my true self was when I was with you. The ball is on your side of the court.

Do as you please with this research and know that I will never resent you for any of it.

I love you. That one truth, at the very least, is absolute.”

 

-

Is there even a choice to make, in the end?

You know how it goes with constants.

 

+ 

“God, you piss me off,” Oikawa snarls, venom slipping between his clenched teeth as soon as the door closes behind him, “You piss me off so much. I’m going to fucking fight you. Fuck you. I could have gotten you killed if I had published the research, they would’ve known you were alive.”

He’s rushing towards Ushijima with a fist ready to meet bones.

Ushijima’s hands are soft around the slope of Oikawa’s wrist, and there is a faint smile lifting the corners of his lips up. He looks at him in silence, reverential and too adoring.

“Hi,” Ushijima says, “I missed you.”

“God, shut up,” Oikawa sighs, lets his head fall against Ushijima’s shoulder.

They listen to each other breathe, Ushijima’s hands sliding up and down Oikawa’s back like he’s trying to recall the feeling of the sinews and dips and pebbles of spine underneath the layers of clothes.

“Are you going to tell me your name, now?” Oikawa asks after a while, his arms loose around Ushijima’s middle. He’s calm again, he thinks. He could get used to this.

Ushijima smiles, leans forward to press a chaste kiss to the cup of Oikawa’s lips.

“Let’s go away for the weekend, first.”

 


End file.
